


Between The Worlds

by JediDroid



Category: Horizon: Zero Dawn (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Crossover, F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-01
Updated: 2018-09-25
Packaged: 2018-12-22 07:56:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 16,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11963058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JediDroid/pseuds/JediDroid
Summary: Witcher/Hzd crossover/// Hiding in an alternate reality, Ciri meets Aloy by chance. The pair fall into an alliance. When Ciri is forced to return home, Aloy is unintentionally dragged along.





	1. Chapter 1

"There," Nil said, close to her ear. "Do you see?"

Low to the ground, Aloy leans around the boulder shielding them from view, cautiously peering down at the clearing below. She sniffs the air, taking in the smell of campfires, of sweat and wet furs.

"I see them," she says, voice low, eyes focused.

Bandits. A small group, loud and careless, comfortable that their numbers will deter attackers.

Nil points. "Prisoners."

She hums in reply. Three. Bound and hooded, kneeling in the mud on the peripheral of the camp, their forms rigid and unmoving.

Breath crystalizing in the cold air, she pulls the bow from her back, readying an arrow. She glances at Nil with raised brows. "Ready?"

His lips purse. "There is hardly any sport in such a small group. Certainly no challenge."

"You have standards now?"

"Rather taste. I had hoped today would be fruitful. I see it will instead be a bitter exercise in monotony."

"So dramatic," she says, smirking. "Wait for my signal. I'll release the prisoners first."

He waves a dismissive hand. "On with you, you disgustingly conscientious good Samaritan."

With that, she slides down the hill amid a rustle of rocks and dust, coming to a tense halt in a tall crop of grass. She pauses, pressing herself close to the frozen ground, listening for any signs of alarm. Hearing none, she slowly raises her head, scanning the bandits. They move about undisturbed, setting about the business of setting up a temporary camp.

She takes a breath, holds it, feeling her lungs chill, lets it go. She pushes herself up, grass rustling beneath her boots.

Body tense and humming, she moves with care, slipping through the tall grass until she approaches the edge of the camp. The prisoners shiver, their hands reddened from cold, a dusting of snow over their shoulders.

Aloy creeps forward. In the open, she stretches out, pressing her stomach to the ground, pulling herself forward on her elbows until she reaches the prisoners.

She pops into a crouch, leaning forward. "No one make a noise," she hisses, drawing the knife from her belt. "I'm here to help. I'm going to cut the ropes."

"I can help," comes a soft murmur from the prisoner to the left, the voice feminine and accented. "Give me a weapon."

Aloy cuts the ropes at the prisoner's wrists with a practiced motion, presses the handle of the knife into her palm. "Stay out of my way."

The woman makes a noise in her throat, whether offended or amused Aloy can't be sure.

Moving with purpose, Aloy unslings her bow, snatching a fire arrow from its quiver. Fluid, she scrapes the blaze soaked arrow head over the flint on the side of her boot, igniting it. Her arm pulls back, aiming, loosing the flaming bolt into the sky, flame streaking and flickering.

"Intruder!" Comes a shout from the nearest guard. He scrambles for the axe at his belt, fumbling. He stiffens abruptly, a wet gargle coming from his throat, mouth falling open. He topples over, an arrow protruding from his neck. Aloy recognizes the orange and white colors of Nil's fletch.

Slinging her bow over her shoulder, Aloy seizes the lance at her side. She runs forward with a cry, swinging the crackling blue blade up in a powerful arc. She grunts as she finds purchase in flesh. Quickly, she pulls back and spins, free hand finding grip in a greasy mess of hair, cutting into the soft flesh of an exposed throat, her stomach turning oily at the sudden smell of gore.

A flash catches her eye, something green and too bright. She turns to see a flash of silver hair, watches as a strange woman surges forward. Teeth bared, she burys the blade of Aloy's knife into an attacker's eye, twisting, pulping the soft tissue. She gives a cry, shoving the inert body away. Her head jerks up, catching Aloy's stunned eyes, returning her stare with frenetic emotion, something behind her eyes burning, threatening to devour.

The stranger's eyes flash. "Behind you!" She cries.

Aloy drops into a crouch, an arrow whizzing over her head. Her stomach jolts as she realizes its trajectory, making at unstoppable speed for the stranger's chest. She opens her mouth to shout a warning. Gathering her breath, the words at the edge of her teeth. A green incandescence envelopes the woman, pulling her into its void. The air pops and she is gone.

A blink. Aloy's heart loud in her ears, roaring. The air seems to tingle, to vibrate. She looks down at her arms, watching the skin turn to gooseflesh.

A crack next to her, startlingly loud, a heat on her cheek. She cries out as hands seize her arms, pulling her to the side as a volley of arrows pass through the space she had just occupied. She allows herself to be dragged behind the cover of a tent, gaping at the woman at her side.

"Close your mouth before you catch flies," the woman says, amused in spite of the current situation. Her eyes glow.

Dazed, blinking, Aloy palms her bow. She notches an arrow, with a determined glance at her companion, she steps away from cover, sighting down the shaft at a fleeing bandit. She watches him fall.

With Nil sniping from above and Aloy and the stranger converging on the surviving knot, the remaining bandits are dispatched quickly.

The coppery, dirty smell of spilled blood thick in her nose, Aloy drops into a crouch next to a fire. Across from her, the stranger wipes her stained hands on her thighs, nose wrinkled with disgust.

"Good fight," says Nil. "Glorious deaths for all." He steps into the fire light, eyeing the stranger curiously. "Where are the other two?"

Aloy shrugs. "Gone. Probably half way to Meridian by now."

"Ah. Not all are born with a warrior's heart." He smiles at the stranger, a flirtatious curve to his lips. "Something our new friend does not lack."

Aloy stands, gaze intent on the ashen haired stranger. "Who are you?" She demands, voice hard, eyes cold.

The woman raises a brow, eyes flashing with challenge. "Are you always this charming?" She asks.

"Not at all," Nil says, stepping closer to the stranger. "My friend is a Nora. No social niceties among that tribe. She can't help herself."

Features fierce, the stranger straightens her back, squaring her shoulders. "Since you may have saved my life, I'll overlook your rudeness. My name is Cirilla. Ciri if you're feeling casual."

"Rudeness?" Aloy sputters, face growing warm.

How dare she?

Ciri quirks an eyebrow.

Nil clears his throat. "Perhaps we should continue these revelations away from the dead. Madame Prisoner, I can offer you a spare bedroll for the night. As you seem to misplaced yours."

"That's very kind of you. I accept."

"Excellent." Nil smiles in Aloy's direction, smug.

The Brave frowns, but holds her tongue. Holding herself with as much dignity as she can muster, she stalks past the pair.

 

 

Prior to their attack on the bandit camp, Nil and Aloy stashed their packs north of the bandits. They make camp there now, Nil slipping away to hunt dinner, Aloy building a fire pit of stones. She looks up as Ciri approaches, depositing an armful of wood at her side. The ashen haired woman casts her an impassive glance, steps away.

Arranging the wood, striking a flint into a small pile of dry grass, Aloy breathes, fans a flame to life. Satisfied, she leans back. Her gazes drifts to the sword hanging from the woman's hip, curious. She watched her retrieve it from the bandit captain before, her expression pleased as she checked the blade and found it unscathed.

Following Aloy's eyes, Ciri's hand drops to the hilt. "I've never been much with a bow," she says, needing to fill the silence. "I even hunt with traps. My....father is quite good with a crossbow. But piss poor with the sort you use."

"Crossbow?"

"Oh, uhm. A bow, but with a wooden support that has a groove for the bolt. You pull a mechanism and it draws and releases the string."

Aloy's brow furrows. "And it works?" She asks, doubtful.

Ciri laughs. "Yes, quite well."

She settles close to the fire. Aloy studies her, taking the unusual paleness of her skin, the scar on her cheek, the smooth curvature of her lips. Her eyes are a stunning green, flecks of amber at the centers. The ashen hair is pulled back, exposing a pale neck. Her face is all cheekbones and frowning thought, a scar on her upper lip. The face of a warrior, but no less beautiful for it.

Noticing the focus trained on her, Ciri smirks, dropping her chin to her hand. "You're very odd, you know."

Aloy flushes, heat rising from her collar. "I've never seen anyone who looks like you."

Ciri smiles, teeth white and sharp. "Nor I one that looks like you."

"What I mean is, well, you're very....mysterious."

"Oh?"

Aloy winces. It sounds flirtatious, suggestive. Her voice pitches higher. "What I meant -"

"Yes?"

Aloy groans. "I don't know. I don't know what I meant."

Ciri grins, delighted by the other's obvious mortification. "I think I understand."

"I'm sorry," Aloy continues, ignoring the woman's Cheshire grin. "About before. What you did -"

"Maybe don't mention that to your friend."

"Why?"

"For now, suffice to say it's not something I under scrutiny. More than it already is." She levels a pointed stare.

Aloy considers, hazel eyes bright in the fire light. "Are you an Old One?"

"Old One?"

"From before. Before the Faro Plague."

A line appears between Ciri's eyes. She gives a slow shake of her head. "No."

"Then who are you."

"I told you."

"You gave me a name. You didn't answer my question."

"You're a persistent one."

"You're evasive."

A branch snaps and they both look around as Nil steps into the fire light. He holds up two limp rabbits, grin triumphant. "A bountiful dinner, companions!"

Shooting Aloy a look, Ciri stands. "Let me," she says, reaching for a rabbit, eager to be away from Aloy's intent stare.

Aloy falls silent. Looking into the fire, she wraps her arms around her knees.

She will wait. She has waited longer for more important things. In this, she will be patient.


	2. Chapter 2

In the time they travel, Ciri avoids Aloy, sticking like hardened sap to Nil's side. The Carja seems delighted by the attention, his smiles growing sly and knowing, his gazes lingering. 

Once, bedded down for the night, the fire cooled to smoldering embers, Aloy watched from her bedroll as Nil crept to Ciri's side. He knelt, hand tugging at the edges of the furs, sliding beneath, searching, touching. A rasp, a flash of steel and Nil's hands shot up, head tilted away from the blade at his throat. Grimacing and rubbing the stubble at his neck, he slunk back to his bedroll, thoroughly rebuked and chastised . 

Sensing Aloy's gaze, Ciri turned her head, their eyes locking. She frowned. A rustle and her hand came up, middle finger displayed. Smirking, Aloy shifted deeper into the furs, swallowing a chuckle.

Nil left them soon after, no more goodbye than a nod as he slipped away. 

Aloy watches him blur at the edges, fade. Perched atop a rock, she bounces her heels, the stone sun-warmed beneath her. She worries at a thin strip of jerky. Next to her, Ciri draws symbols into the dust, listless. 

"You don't want to tell me," Aloy says, eyes on the blue edge of the horizon.

Ciri's chin tilts, a lock of hair falling over her eyes. "It's too fantastic. You would think me mad. Or worse yet, a liar."

Aloy shrugs. "I've seen the impossible."

Ciri takes a breath, eyebrows drawing together. "I have a...gift. A talent of blood passed down the generations of my line to every girl child. Simply, an ability to manipulate time and space, travel between worlds, dimensions."

"Worlds?"

A coy smile. "You think your reality is the only one? An arrogant thought. There is more in existence than your world of machines and tribes, vast spaces that defy imagining. Some just as you might expect. Others barren and destroyed, raped and abandoned, left to the dust of time."

"And your world? What is it like?"

"Magical. Backwards and conflicted, but enchanted none the less."

"And your gift, it brought you here?"

"Just so."

"Deliberately?"

"More or less."

"But why?"

Cocking her head, Ciri gives a soft laugh. "Must you know everything?"

"Only the important things."

"Importance is a matter of perspective."

"I want to help."

Ciri laughs again, startled. "You're one of those."

Aloy raises a brow, questioning. 

"A fixer. An optimist. A fool."

"And you're different?"

Her smile bitter now. "A ghost. When I leave, there will be nothing left of me, no trace. Nothing to remember me by."

"Your face."

She focuses on the young Brave, gaze sharp. "What?"

"I'll remember your face. And your words. Your actions. All the things that matter."

Ciri smiles, the expression quick and brilliant, fleeting. "You're much too sincere."

Aloy's lips curl, quirking in a lopsided grin.

"Let's not dwell," Ciri says, leaping to her feet. "I'm restless for adventure. What does this world of yours have to offer if not grand emprise?"

Aloy stands, shadow long on the rock beneath them. "Only the best of adventures."

Ciri's eyes glow, shimmer, something fervent in them, something burning. "Show me."

 

 

Aloy lingers outside the gates of Mother's Watch, tense and nervous, hands knotting together. Her guts twist and roil, a familiar anxiety setting her teeth on edge, tightening her chest, constricting until she tastes sweat. 

She is the Anointed, the Savior; and yet, she feels no different - small, less than. Not enough. Something unclean, unworthy of touch, something to be ignored, shunned.

A hand settles on her shoulder and she looks up, drawn into impossibly green eyes. 

"What's wrong?" Ciri asks.

Everything. The entire world, shaken up and spun around.

"No," she says. "It's been a while."

"You have family here?"

Aloy's lips twitch. "No."

Eyes fix on her, concerned, searching. She shifts away, the hand on her shoulder falling.

"Follow," she says, brusque.

Through the gates, up the hill, weaving through smoke and the shouts of a busy village. Aloy walks with her head lowered, her gaze on the ground, wishing for invisibility. She hopes to make it to the merchant stalls without notice - a quick purchase of necessities and back out the gate, into the relief of open spaces.

"Aloy!"

She freezes, jaw twitching.

Varl rushes forward, a toothy smile and flashing dark eyes bright with excitement. He steps close, giving her a once over. His arm crosses over his chest, chin inclining. "Welcome back, Savior."

Cheeks warming, Aloy shifts, rubbing at her elbow. She ignores Ciri's raised eyebrow.

"Varl," she says, offering a subdued smile.

"It is good to see you well," he says. "It has been several moons."

"I'm not here long."

He nods. "Understood." His gaze drifts to Ciri, examining her. "An Outlander."

"A friend."

His face is passive, inscrutable. "As you say. I can see you are eager to be about your business. Well met, sister. It is unfortunate the All Mother's will takes you from us so soon. May she watch over you in your journeys."

He turns to go. Aloy's hand darts out, fingers curling around his elbow. "I am happy to see you," she says. 

His expression softens, lines smoothing. He touches her hand, a brief brush of fingertips. "I do not fault you. Only wish to change what cannot be undone."

Aloy smiles, faraway, untouchable. "Be well."

"And you."

He steps away.

 

 

The cabin is just as she left it. 

Slipping through the moonlight, lungs thin with cold air, Aloy makes her way up the footpath to Rost's cabin. Not her's, always Rost's. Built with his hands, his blood aged into the foundation, his smell still lingering on the furs of the bunk. His grave outside the gate.

The door creaks, spilling light over the floor. Wordless, Aloy drops her pack, makes her way to the hearth. Rustling, wood scrapping together, the scratch of a flint. Flame. Small, growing brighter beneath her breath, flickering and popping.

Ciri lingers in the doorway, hesitant, hand on the pommel of her sword as she looks about. She shifts.

Aloy gestures. "Shut the door behind you."

She does, closing them off, freezing them in time, stopping the world outside, perhaps erasing it.

"It's not much," Aloy says, wondering what luxuries her companion must be accustomed to. "But it's comfortable."

Ciri strides forward until her hands touch the back of a chair. She pulls it out, sits, legs crossing at the ankle. She looks up, blunt and open. "Tell me. Tell me what's bothering you."

The eyes gazing at her are earnest, concerned. She swallows, mouth tasting of desert dust, throat tight with unwelcome emotion. 

"I once thought I was weak for feeling," Ciri says. "For loving and grieving, for being more than indifferent. I shan't lecture you. It's not weakness, rather poetry of the heart and mind. You have no reason to be ashamed."

Aloy clears her throat. "This is Rost's cabin. He was...like a father. Raised me, taught me. We were shunned by the tribe. Only us. And now, he's dead and I'm here and they all think I'm something I'm not." 

Ciri considers. "The Savior. Not that Savior?"

The Nora flushes, nodding.

Ciri hums, thoughtful. "I've heard the stories. You're a legend."

Aloy coughs, face turning a deeper red. "No."

"You are. You saved a world. A civilization. It's no easy feat."

She doesn't add that she knows the responsibilities of such a title, the burdens of heroism. She reaches out, catching hold of a dangling wrist, pulling the blushing Brave into a chair. Folding her arms on the table, she rests her cheek against her forearm.

Aloy stares down at her hands, picking at a hangnail. "Were you happy in your world?"

"Happy enough. I had friends. Loved ones."

"You miss them?"

"Very much."

"Will you go back?"

"I hope so."

Aloy bites her lip, worrying it between her teeth. "You never told me. What you're running from."

"Destiny."

They fall silent, listening to the sounds of night, bat wings and crickets, trees whispering. Each in her own thoughts, dazed, remembering, maybe trying to forget. Much later, the moon high in the sky, they drift apart, Ciri falling into Aloy's bunk, Aloy slipping into Rost's.

Hand under her cheek, Ciri watches as Aloy turns from her, facing the wall. She traces the line of her shoulders, the curve of her hip, the mess of wild red hair spilling over her pillow. She aches to reach out to her, to bury her hands in her braids, to breathe against her temple, whispering a tale, the story of a desperate truth.

Monsters. Lurking myths hungering for the magic in her blood, the blood of one fated to always fight, never rest.

Her eyes slip close and she dreams of a lake. She stands on a beach, clouds dark with storms at her shoulders, watching a boat approach. In the boat is a man, stiff - a dead man with a scarred face and white hair.

A Wolf.


	3. Chapter 3

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" Ciri murmurs, staring hard at their target.

Aloy peers around the boulder, sizing up the Snapmaw sunning on the riverbank. "Yes?" she says, unable to hide a guilty grin.

Ciri sighs, rolling her eyes. "Lovely."

"It'll be a cake walk," Aloy assures her. "Stay away from the tail. There's a freeze sac under its jaw - that's yours. I'll take out the Blaze canisters behind its head."

"Cake walk? Is it some sort of tribal tradition to walk on baked goods?"

Aloy blinks. "What are you talking about?"

"You just said - oh, nevermind."

Aloy shrugs, giving her companion a wary sideways glance. Curiouser and curiouser.

"Is this really necessary?" Ciri asks, drawing her sword. "Risking life and limb to fell a giant reptilian machine monster?"

"Yes," Aloy replies.

"You're not going to elaborate, are you."

"No."

"Alright then." 

Aloy smirks, self-assured. "I'll be up here. Stay back until I take out the canisters. You'll know when I do. Strike it while it's dazed."

"Yes, Mighty Huntress."

They make quick work of the Snapmaw, Aloy holding the high ground, riddling the machine's body with Blaze arrows. Small fires dancing amid its wires, the beast screams and twists, lashing its tail in defense. A tremor travels its length as an arrow strikes a Blaze canister. It looses a distorted roar, jaws gaping, snapping at the air. The world flashes as the canister explodes. The ground trembles, sending clouds of dust billowing.

Ciri crouches, watching from cover. The second canister shatters and she brings her arm up, shielding her face from the blast, heat licking at her wrist.

The machine wavers, shakes, electricity dancing beneath its plates. Taking advantage of its inattention, Ciri bolts from hiding. She drops into a slide, kicking up rocks and dust, letting loose a a war cry as she comes to a stop beneath the Snapmaw. She rears back her arm, thrusting her sword into the pulsing blue energy of the freeze sac. It explodes, scattering Chillwater. Unconsciously, she sucks in a breath, frost coating her lungs, eyes turning glassy and cold. She rolls away. The beast screams, rears. She scrambles to her feet, stumbling in her rush to escape.

Watching from above, Aloy sees her chance. With a gleeful shout, she leaps, propels herself into the air. The world rushes up to meet her. Her body jars as her boots slam into the metal plates on the Snapmaw's back. She lunges forward, spear tip seeking the sweet spot in the machine's neck. She finds it, sparks spitting into her face as she twists, letting out a triumphant yell. The Snapmaw quivers, knee joints groaning under the strain, collapsing, sending the whole heap crashing to the ground in a rush of red dust. Its eyes flicker, dim, die.

Laughing, Ciri steps forward. "Brilliant! Bloody brilliant!"

Aloy slides down the beast's massive side. Her grin is cocky, her movements sure as she tucks her spear away. "Told you so."

Ciri sheathes her sword. Her hair has come loose, hangs in her face. Her hands drop to her hips. "You're like a peacock swaggering about. If you weren't so attractive, I would be revolted."

"What's a peacock?" Aloy asks. She pauses, processing. Her eyes widen. "Did you just - "

"It's a bird," Ciri interrupts, striding past the loose jawed young woman to examine the Snapmaw's tail. "The males have vividly colored plumage. They're very prideful, prancing about preening and puffing their chests. Much like yourself."

"I see. Thanks?" Aloy kneels at the Snapmaw's chest. She rummages among the parts, discarding what she deems unnecessary. She tosses a loose spring over her shoulder, pointedly ignoring the woman at her back.

Ciri smirks. She watches a flush spread over the Brave's cheeks, delighting in the way the red highlights her freckles. "Welcome. You see what you risked our lives for, I hope?"

Aloy tugs, wires snapping. She withdraws her hands, holding up the heart for inspection. Finding it whole and unharmed, she beams. "Got it."

"All that effort for this?"

Aloy tucks the heart into a pouch at her belt, giving it a pat. "It's valuable. More valuable than shards in some cases."

"If you say so."

Turning away from the tinkering Nora, Ciri looks at the river. She takes in the landscape around it, the sparse tufts of grass wilting in the heat shimmering up from the ground. She slips a finger under her collar, tugging. A single bead of sweat rolls down her temple, journeys over her jaw, disappearing down her neck.

"Do you think there is another of those beasts lurking about?" she asks absentmindedly, distracted by the promising shimmer of sun warmed water. A fish meanders by, nipping at the water flies on the surface.

Aloy looks up from the Snapmaw, considering the land around them. It seems so vast in the heat waves, a never ending stretch of dust and rocks. "None near enough to bother us." 

Ciri's belt hits the ground. Startled, Aloy turns to look at her. Her palms turn sweaty as she watches the woman quickly remove her armor, tossing the pieces aside.

"What are you doing?"

"Going for a swim."

"Now?" She resents the way her voice pitches higher. She takes a breath, shaking the fuzz from her head. "You don't know what's in there. Leeches maybe!"

"Only fish," Ciri smiles. "Minnows and turtles. Perhaps a snake or two."

Aloy shudders, a cold chill zipping up her spine. in her mind, she sees a pale ankle, scales wrapping around the flesh, a sinewy body constricting, tightening.

"Don't tell me you're afraid." Ciri teases, eyes gleaming.

Aloy gives a nervous laugh. Ciri's shirt flutters to the ground, leaving her torso bare save for a wrap over her breasts. Her collarbones seem fragile, the lines delicate. She wonders what it would be like to touch them, to press her palm over her heart. 

Her mouth goes dry as she hears pants unsnapping and she looks at the sky, blinking, forgetting how to breathe.

Afraid, yes. Whether fear of snakes or a scantily clad woman, she is unsure.

Untangling her pants from her ankles, Ciri leaves the garment in a pile on top of her boots. She pads over to the flushing Nora Brave, noting with amusement how the girl seems determined to look only at her face, holding unnaturally still at her proximity.

"I see." Ciri's voice is soft. "You're shy."

"No." Aloy's eyes turn panicked. She shakes her head, adamant.

Ciri chuckles. "I wouldn't have guessed. Your world is so primitive. I had thought prudes wouldn't come along for another hundred years or so."

"I am not a prude."

"You're acting like one."

"I'm not a prude," Aloy says again.

To prove it, she raises her shaking hands to her armor, pulling at clasps. "I'm perfectly comfortable. In the nude."

"Nude." Ciri swallows a giggle. She raises an eyebrow, disbelieving, daring.

"One hundred percent at ease." She unbuckles her belt, playing casual as it falls to the ground. She pushes her weapons and pouches to the the side with her foot. Face defiant, she puts toe to heel, kicking out of her boots. Bared to a shirt and pants, she hesitates.

One hundred percent not at ease. One hundred percent dying.

Turning serious, Ciri steps close. Aloy freezes, acutely aware - the heat emanating from her skin like a small sun, the smell of her hair. A pale hand hovers, brushing a fingertip over the scar on her neck.

"I hadn't noticed this," she murmurs. She traces the faded line. "What happened?"

Aloy holds as still as if a Watcher lurks at her back. She feels a cold fear, inexplicable, and yet an exhilarated by Ciri's proximity, her heart racing, her vision sharpening with something akin to battle focus.

"If I tell you, will you tell me about yours?"

A bitter smile. "Which one?"

Her eyes flicker down, taking in the other's body, not for its aesthetic beauty, but for the marks, the scars, the tears and burns. Chest heavy with unexpected regret - sorrow at the other's pain, her old wounds, past anguish - she looks back up. She looks at the scar over Ciri's upper lip, oddly alluring. She finds herself wanting to lean forward and touch it with her tongue.

Giving a guilty twitch, she swallows, throat bobbing. "Your choice."

"The obvious then." Ciri touches the scar under her eye. "A man named Steffan Skellen. He was hired to find me and take me to my father. As I was escaping, he threw an orion at me; a bit of metal shaped like a star. It sounds a trifle, but you can see the results."

Aloy shivers at the thought. Feeling obligated, she passes her fingers over her throat. "Helis. A fanatic. He was sent to kill me. I got lucky. He hesitated."

Ciri gazes at her, eyes sad.

A breeze stirs her hair over her shoulders. Aloy takes a deliberate step back, putting space between herself and the other woman.

"Can I tell you something?" she asks.

"Of course."

Aloy darts forward, taking off at a sprint towards the river. "Last one in hunts dinner!"

Shouting indignantly, Ciri follows. "You're still wearing your clothes!"

Aloy laughs.

 

 

Aloy trades the Snapmaw heart and three hundred shards for a hunting bow. She passes it to Ciri with a shy glance, shuffling away as the ashen haired woman runs her hands over the wood.

"I - thank you," Ciri says. "I wasn't being modest when I said I wasn't good."

"You need practice. I'm sure you're fantastic with that sword, but you need something more practical. At least as a backup weapon. Works great over distance."

"Distance has never been a hindrance for me," Ciri smirks.

Aloy shrugs. "Still"

"Very well. A new skill never hurts."

"Right."

They make camp near a stream outside Meridian that night. Content in silence, Aloy sets about cleaning her weapons, enjoying the repetition, the mindlessness of the task.

Ciri settle next to her, her shoulders relaxed, a faint smile on her lips. Her thigh presses against Aloy's, a firm, almost deliberate pressure. The Brave swallows, ignoring the way her stomach drops, the way her insides heat up.

"I must say," Ciri says. "I've not felt this carefree in some time. So much of my life has been spent running and fighting and plotting. This is different. Sleeping under the stars, roaming where I may."

Aloy watches from under her eyelashes. She holds her breath, wills her raging heart to calm.

"And you," Ciri continues. She turns to face her fully. "You're extraordinary. I only wish you had been born into my world. I'm selfish, greedy. I wish I could have know you before this. From the beginning perhaps."

"You're okay yourself. As far as dimensional travelers go."

They laugh, Ciri warm against Aloy's side. 

"Tell me," Ciri says, her voice suddenly low and intense. "Have you ever kissed anyone?"

Aloy chokes on her spit. "Of course I have," she gasps, still coughing, wiping tears from her eyes. "What kind of question is that?"

"Not a peck. A real kiss. On the lips. With a paramour."

"I don't even know what that is."

"A lover. Or perhaps, even more interestingly, an inamorata."

"Is that even English? I feel like it's not."

"I like you," Ciri says. She leans back on her palms, watching Aloy's flustered face. 

Taking pity, she takes the girl's heated face between her palms, looking into her eyes. "I want to be clear. I want to kiss you, very much. But only if it is what you want."

Aloy closes her eyes. She sighs. Ciri's hands are cool on her cheeks, soothing. Her face is close to her own, close enough to taste her breath on her lips, her warmth.

She leans forward, lips parting, heart thudding in anticipation. Ciri's hands shift, one sliding along her jaw to cup the back of her neck. She leaves it there, not exerting pressure, simply touching, curling against her skin.

Aloy trembles. An eyelash flutters against her cheek and she feels like she's falling. She reaches out, wanting to feel, to learn. Their lips hover, breath mingling...

A crack splits the night.

They spring apart, lunging for discarded weapons. 

A portal appears, bright and swirling, ash and snow breathing from the roaring energy. Aloy lets loose a breath, watching it cloud. A cold unlike any she has ever known grips her, sharp, iron-like, frosting her armor. 

"No." Ciri's face contorts. She seizes Aloy's wrist. "Run. Quickly."

Aloy shakes her head, stunned. 

"Aloy, please!" Desperate. "You don't know what's coming through that portal. This isn't your fight."

"I'm staying with you."

"Zireael," comes a voice, ghostly, slithering. "Come, dear one. Come home."

Dark shapes in the portal, big, too big, inhuman.

Ciri steps in front of Aloy, sword drawn. "Ge'els," she spits, mouth twisting in distaste.

Her eyes brighten, the emerald glowing, powerful. Green magic sparks at her fingertips.

"None of that," Ge'els admonishes, coming into focus - face all angles, ears tapered to points, eyes a glowing yellow. " I have bracelets for you, dimeritium specially crafted just for you."

More shapes, dark, looming. They descend. Aloy tastes blood, feels the ground beneath her hands, her vision darkening at the edges. Ciri shouts. The grate of chains.

"Come," says Ge'els. "Bring our prize."

Aloy stumbles to her feet. Ciri is being dragged away, towards the portal.

Green eyes find her own.

"Don't," Ciri says, begging.

Aloy ignores her. She falls forward, catching onto a booted ankle. She clings to it, ice in her lungs, coating her bones, her blood turning dark and cold.

More cold. Light. Blinded. Like being underwater, a roaring in her ears, pressure on her head, on her shoulders, in her chest, threatening to tear her asunder. 

Ciri's voice. Shouting. Her name. Desperate.

And nothing. Gone. She hears no more, sees only the black behind her eyelids.


	4. Chapter 4

"Fool," Yen says, her voice echoing in the dim room. "You should have stayed away. You knew they would come for you. Selfish."

In her dream, Ciri sits at a long table, a feast laid out before her. At her right sits Geralt, pale and silent. Triss is on her left, bored, digging her fingernails into an apple, watching moisture well from the crescent cuts. And at the head of the table is Yennefer. Dark and beautiful, her violet eyes glowing with something hard, something cold like hate.

Even here, with ghosts, Ciri wants to lie, to protest. She opens her mouth to speak, tastes ash and gags.

"Spare us," Yen hisses. "Save your excuses."

"Really, little sister," Triss says, not looking at her, staring at Geralt. "You got that poor girl killed. She was so nice, too. Just a doll."

Geralt makes a noise low in his throat, shakes his head. "Taught you better. Taught you to sacrifice your feelings for the greater good."

Rage swells in her, black and warm, thick in her mouth. "Sacrifice?" She chokes on the word. "I've done nothing but sacrifice."

"Poor you," Yen sneers. "You must be the only soul to suffer. The only one to ever know loss."

Triss giggles, green eyes malicious. "What do you think they'll do with her? A Human in the world of the Aen Elle. Slavery? Sport? Or maybe they'll let you keep her if you give them a nice pink, healthy baby."

Geralt's gaze is forlorn. The scar on his face is shiny and deep. "I miss you. Should have come home. Would have protected you."

"Again," Triss says, sing-song. "Shouldn't have run, little Swallow. Should have just given them a brat. You said, after all."

Yen smirks. She drinks from the cup at her hand. Her lips come away red and wet. "Eat, Cirilla. Put some meat on your bones. The fatter the better. You will be positively mouthwatering."

She cackles, head thrown back.

Triss grins, pale fingers spider-walking towards Geralt's hand.

Geralt looks away, turns his face to the shadows.

Ciri screams.

 

 

When she wakes, they feed her, leave a jug of water next to the bed. A Human slave comes to empty her chamber pot, looking through her, eyes vacant, glassy with enchantment.

From the window, she sees the slanted architecture of an Aen Elle city. She leans against the stone, looking at the ground below. She thinks of jumping. It would kill her instantly, hardly any pain at all, the crush of impact turning her to a soup of splintered bones and crimson blood.

She looks at the chains on her wrists, a heaviness in her stomach, her mind gray and hazy.

Footsteps outside her door. A shuffling as the guards bow and scrape to the side. The door opens, bringing the smell of spiced wine and flames.

"Ah, Zireael. It pleases me to see you awake. I've been waiting most anxiously."

She turns, meeting yellow eyes, her jaw clenching.

Ge'els seats himself, palms pressing to his tunic, smoothing the material. He taps a long nail against his knee, eyes narrowing as he considers the young woman before him.

"Uncanny, your resemblance to her. Like a reflection in a puddle of mud; there, but nowhere near the purity of the true thing."

"Surely you have come to do more than insult me," Ciri says, wishing for a knife, a sword, anything sharp enough to plunge into the Aen Elle's pale throat.

He smirks, reading her thoughts clearly in her eyes. "Ever vicious. A perfect little savage. Much like your companion."

"If you have hurt her - "

"Save your breath, Human. Your threats amount to nought here."

'I will kill you,' she thinks, eyes fierce. 'I will rip your heart from your chest.'

"She breathes. She sleeps the sleep of the enchanted, and will slumber until it is time for her to rise and bow to her new Master." He laughs, teeth sharp. "Did you think we would forget your debt? Avallac'h aided your efforts to stop the White Frost. It is time for you to give us what you promised."

She swallows, chest tight.

Ge'els flicks his fingers. A cloaked figure steps through the doorway. Hands raise, sleeves slipping back to show fine, thin wrists. The hood falls away.

Avallac'h nods in greeting, eyes unwavering. "Zireael. It has been a time."

She snarls, revulsion rising in her throat. Her stomach clenches, knotting. She tastes blood, a familiar loathing. "We've come full circle then."

"Just so."

"You're monsters. All of you."

"Petty Human morality." Ge'els waves a hand dismissively. "You will give a child to us. It is necessary for our civilization to thrive."

"I do not require your consent, nor your body," Avallac'h says. "Only your blood."

He steps forward, reaching for her, fingers long and skeletal.

Ciri raises her chin. "And what becomes of me?"

Ge'els smiles, a leer. "You shall serve, as befits your kind. As the repulsive worm you are."

Avallac'h's fingers close around her wrist, turning her palm up. He takes a knife from his belt. It glints, wicked as it seperates skin, red startling against the white of her skin.

"Done," Avallac'h murmurs, watching as if mesmerized as her blood drips into the chalice he holds under her hand.

Ge'els stands, dipping into a mock bow. "The Aen Elle thank you, Cirilla. May you live to the full extent of your pitiful race. Guards!"

The guards come forward, filing through the door, their hands rough about her shoulders.

Avallac'h smells the blood in the chalice. "Like rusted steel," he says.

She meets his eyes. "This is not the end."

His smile is wry. He turns away, wordless.

 

 

Cold.

Snow below her feet. Above her is darkness, starless, no moon. Trees around her, dark twisted things, red sap oozing from splits in the bark, showing the meat of the wood.

Shivering, Aloy hugs herself. Her arms and stomach are bare, her boots gone, her pants torn. She breathes and clouds expel from her mouth, her teeth cold, her tongue the hot center.

Not dead. A dream. Bright sparks in her sleeping brain.

"How astute," says a voice.

Starting, she whirls around.

A man sits on a ragged stump, hands busy filling a pipe with tobacco. His is far from extraordinary in appearance, his build average, hair closely cropped, eyes the color of wet dust. He smiles up at her, too innocent, too open. She senses something lurking, just below his skin, dangerous.

A match flares as he lights the pipe.

"Well met," the man says, clamping the pipe stem between his teeth. "A shame to meet you like this. But, you are.....indisposed. If you remember."

She does. Remembers the ice and the ash, the light.

Eyes wary, she examines him. "You're real?"

"As real as anyone can be," he laughs.

"I don't understand."

His lips purse as he blows a smoke ring. "You're not meant to."

She frowns. "Who are you?"

He tilts his head, touching the stem of the pipe to his eyebrow. "Gaunter O'Dimm, Merchant of Mirrors, Purveyor of Souls, at your service."

"Purveyor of Souls?"

"In most cases, I'm afraid so. However, in this case, I seek something more....corporeal. A deed in exchange for a favor, if you will. Interested?"

"Should I be?"

He laughs, his tongue black. "I'm afraid so. You slumber, helpless, and your companion is bound by magical blockers, unable to aide even herself." He leans forward, teeth flashing, eyes without color, pitch. He smells of blood and smoke. "With a slight bit of intervention, I can free her. Let the cards fall where they may."

"For a favor."

He grins. "Just so. An unspecified favor at a time of my choosing."

She nods. "Deal."

The corner of O'Dimm's mouth twitches. "Shake on it?"

She cries out as she touches his hand, her forearm suddenly aflame. Gasping, she looks down, watching as smoke wisps up from her flesh, a red symbol scarred into her arm, stark against the blue of her veins.

O'Dimm dips his chin, eyes bottomless. "Until we meet again."

And he is gone. No trace, save for the smell of fire.

A dread heavy on her chest, she looks down at the mark on her arm.

Purveyor of Souls.


	5. Chapter 5

Sweat, edging into the corner of her mouth, sharp on her tongue. Ciri blinks, licks the salt from her lips. Outside, the sun is red, tinting the air with a crimson hue. She can almost taste the color, and the violence it stirs - electricity, the glee of stained steel and fresh blood.

Next to her, laid carelessly on the floor, Aloy sleeps the sleep of an enchanted. Her eyes flicker behind pale, thin lids, dreaming. Her skin is warm to the touch, the rise and fall of her chest reassuring.

Alive. For now.

A guard stands at the door, watching with a dispassionate gaze. On the table next to him are Ciri and Aloy's things, their weapons.

Ciri's fingertips twitch. What she wouldn't give to hold a blade in her hand, to be on even ground again. She can see it in her mind, the split of bone and flesh, the red beneath.

Footsteps. The door opens. In steps a cloaked figure, face obscured by a hood. Too small to be Aen Elle, steps too confident to be a slave. Wrists white, fingers fine and long, the figure draws back the hood, revealing a round face, burning eyes, an amused smirk. 

The guard does not move, does not react. He remains stiff and staring, eyes glinting like glass.

"Cirilla of Cintra," the stranger says, sweeping into a low bow. "A pleasure, My Lady."

Ciri touches the tip of her tongue to her dry lips. "Have we met?"

"Not in this life, I fear. Gaunter O'Dimm. Here to serve." He says it with a jaunty wink, teeth too sharp, gaze too blunt. 

Ciri glances again at the guard.

O'Dimm waves a hand, a butterfly motion. "Don't trouble yourself. We are quite alone here, you and I."

Eyes intent on Ciri's face, O'Dimm steps close to the Aen Elle guard. He raises his arms, fingers spidering over the Aen Elle's high, jutting cheekbones, thumbs touching unblinking eyes. Nostrils flaring, O'Dimm presses, thumbs sinking easily into the Aen Elle's sockets, nails piercing the soft tissue of his brain.

The Aen Elle crumbles to the ground with a clang of armor on stone.

"You see," O'Dimm says, wiping the red from his fingers. "Nothing to it. Funny how fragile they are, these mortals."

Ciri stands, movements slow and cautious, as if in the presence of a wild animal. "What do you want?"

O'Dimm chuckles. "Simple things, dear heart. Your magic is too vast to waste here. But there are rules, even for one such as myself. Thankfully, your sleeping friend there has made it possible for me to intervene. Here you wait in this room for your new master, and I am, to liberate you."

Ciri glances at Aloy in surprise, the girl still slumbering, unaware.

O'Dimm follows her gaze. "When you leave this place, you must return home. Take the girl with you."

"I cannot. It is not her world."

O'Dimm's eyes flash. "She owes a debt. Take her to your world, or I shall kill her in this one."

Ciri's lip curls. She rankles, limited and edged into a corner.

"Don't be stubborn," O'Dimm smirks. "Ignorance does not become you."

She takes a breath, eyes flaring. She holds out her wrists, offering the manacles binding her. "Do it."

"Do we have a deal?" he asks.

"We have a deal." The words are ash in her mouth, acrid.

He beams, glows with triumph. He snaps his fingers. The manacles rattle to the floor.

His smile remains visible even as he raises the hood to obscure his face. "Away, little Swallow, while you still may."

O'Dimm disappears with no more than the whispering of a candle.

The hum of magic and ancient lyrics once again pulsing in her veins, Ciri darts forward, snatching up the bundle of weapon on the table. Blood screaming, skin on fire, she flexes her hands, exhilarated. The energy inside of her is warm and familiar, glowing with a heated hunger, feeding her own battle lust. 

She kneels, slipping her arms beneath Aloy's shoulders, pulling her up to rest against her chest. She tightens her hold, pressing her cheek against the pulse in Aloy's neck.

"I hope you're ready," she murmurs, gathering her magic, letting it lick the tips of her fingers, "for the grandest adventure."

They disappear with a roar, a flash of light. They leave behind only singed air and a dead elf,rigid in a pool of blackening blood, his sockets hollowed and ragged.

 

 

Whining in her ears, high and strident. Ciri gasps, vision blurred, chest aching and burning. Her stomach knots and twists. She tastes bile. Her head spins, the world tilting around her. She struggles to her knees, her fingers curling, digging into cool, wet soil. She sniffs, smelling rain and earth, sighs with relief.

Home.

She retches.

Foolish, Yennefer would admonish. Jumps should be attempted in small small sips, from one space to the next. In her desperation, she made one gargantuan jump, directly from the world of the Aen Elle to her own. She feels the depletion in her magic, the sick, throbbing pain in her head. 

Stuck now, she thinks. Shelter. Not safe. Even here.

Aloy.

Her fingers scramble over the ground, scraping over rocks and clumps of grass until she finds the leather of a boot. Her hand moves higher, climbing up a leg, over the abdomen and chest, pausing to hover over still lips. Warm breath touches the back of her fingers and she laughs, a tired, half hysteria coloring her mind.

"Glad to see you made it," she says to the sleeping woman. "I'm barely here myself." 

She falls back, staring up at the blue, cloudless sky. She listens, hears only the whispering of grass, the distant cry of a bird.

Eyelids heavy, she blinks. The sun warms her face, lulling her. She knows she should move, find food and shelter. Yet, all she wants to do is sleep, to dream, to drift.

Slumber settles over her, thick and heavy, with the warmth of the sun and the smell of summer grass.

 

 

"D'ye think they're dead?"

"That one's chest is moving."

"And t'other?"

"Maybe dead."

"Dead?" A gulp. "Never seen a dead woman before."

Ciri's eyes snap open and she bolts upright. Her expression is fierce, though with grass and twigs caught in her hair and her shirt askew, her intended menace is somewhat dampened. 

Two boys kneel at her feet. At her movement, the bigger of the two gives a yip of terror and starts, bolting away, crashing through the high grass with flailing arms.

The smaller of the boys watches his companion flee. He turns a critical eye on Ciri, head cocked. "Are you a vampire?" he asks.

Ciri gives a startled laugh. "I don't think so."

The boy nods, solemn. "That's good."

"I should say so," Ciri replies, standing. She winces as she stretches, back popping. "What's your name?"

"Cole."

"A pleasure, Cole. My name is Ciri. Tell me, where are we?"

He squints, quizzical. "Free Branch."

She considers. "I am not familiar. How many days ride to Novigrad, would you say?"

"Three."

"That many?"

He nods.

Her lips purse. "Blast it."

Cole cranes his neck. "Your friend going to wake up?"

Ciri looks at the slumbering brave. "Not for a time. She's under a spell, you see."

His eyes widen. "A spell?"

"Aye. It will take magic to wake her. Powerful magic. So you see why I must get to Novigrad."

Cole nodes wisely. "It figures."

Leaning down, Ciri brushes a fingertip along Aloy's jaw. She bites her lip, contemplating.

"Tell me Cole, do they like Gwent in your little village?"

"And how," the boy says, beaming.

"Well, " Ciri says. "I have no money to bet, but I have a fine sword. Show me the way?"

Scooping Aloy into her arms, she follows the boy's skipping figure.

 

 

Dawn the next day finds Ciri and Aloy nestled in the back of a trade wagon bound for Novigrad. On Ciri's belt is a modest pouch of coins.

Ciri smiles, chewing on a blade of grass between her lips. Never will you remain poor with a good swent deck.


	6. Chapter 6

"Who is that woman?" Dandelion demands, peering around Ciri's shoulder with raised brows. "Why is she dressed so oddly?"

Frowning, Ciri presses him back, closing the door and leaning against it. Her arms cross. "Don't you have....taverny things to do?"

Dandelion huffs, chest swelling with indignation. The feather in his hat quivers. "This is my establishment, Cirilla. I have a right to know what's going on under my own roof!"

"Yes, yes. And we'll have a long talk one day, and I'll tell you all about it."

"You Witchers! A more selfish and secretive lot cannot be found."

"Don't be dramatic."

"I shall! You wound me. To the quick. To the very bone!"

Her eyebrow quirks.

"You show up, unannounced, not so much as a glance in my direction, and deposit a most curious looking woman in my very best room! I am appalled by your lack of social graces. You have the blood of royalty in your veins, yet you behave as a dog let in from the streets."

Light steps coming up the stairs.

"Ciri!"

Turning at the sound of a familiar voice, Ciri breaks into a grin, arms opening. Triss steps in, wrapping her in a tight hug. Her nose wrinkles and she steps away, grimacing.

"You smell like a man," Triss says. "Sweaty and dusty. Where have you been?"

"Triss." Ciri shakes her head. Her throat catches and she blinks, suddenly overwhelmed by emotion, the need for a kind word and a listening ear. She shrugs. "There's so much. But I can't seem to find the words."

Triss' smile is gentle. She brushes a hand over Ciri's cheek. "Don't worry, Little Sister. It will come to you when you're ready. Now. Zoltan tells me you have more pressing matters."

Ciri sighs. "An Aen Elle sleeping spell. No antidote."

Triss' gaze is sharp, searching. "Aen Elle."

Ciri grimaces. "I'll explain later."

"In detail."

Ciri nods.

"Show me?" Triss says.

Watching with a frown, Dandelion taps a foot. "Yes, hello, Triss," he says, loudly, " Lovely to see you. You look stunning. I'm well. Just ploughing plucky."

Following Ciri, Triss turns at the door, eyes flashing with mischief. "Hello, Dandelion. Goodbye, Dandelion."

The door shuts.

Alone in the hallway, the poet casts woeful eyes to the heavens. "How they tear at me, the vultures! Taking advantage of such a kind heart. The world today is vicious."

He leaves, muttering to himself.

 

 

"Well?" Ciri says, catching her lip between her teeth, chewing it anxiously. "Can you do anything?"

Expression closed, Triss leans away from Aloy, folding her hands in her lap. "By myself, no. We need Yen."

Ciri groans. "Truly?"

"Yen is more powerful than I am. And more experience with this sort of magic."

"What about Phillipa? Or anyone else from the Lodge?"

"If they help you, they will expect something in return. You may want to avoid Yen, but she will help you."

"Damn."

Triss looks down at Aloy, examining her features with a critical eye. "Who is she?"

"A friend."

"Hm." Triss smiles, sly.

"Don't pull that face," Ciri says.

"What face? The face of disbelief?"

"That's the exact one."

Laughing, Triss stands. "Gather your things and your friend. Yen is in Toussaint. With Geralt."

"Lovely. A family reunion. I can barely contain my joy."

"You have only yourself to blame," Triss replies, ever unsympathetic. She raises her hands, murmuring words of power. Light travels from her fingers, expands into the blackhole of a portal.

Ciri gathers Aloy into her arms, shifting her into a comfortable position. She looks down into her face and smirks. She can imagine the Nora's expression when she learns she has been carted about like a prized piece of luggage, snoring and drooling all the while; a shade between red and purple.

"After you," Triss motions.

Ciri steels herself. She steps into the portal, skin crawling, only to have her breath stolen

 

 

The sky is cloudless, the air still. Only sun and vines and dirt, Corvo Bianco a smudge in the distance. The grass smells warm, slightly singed from the heat of the summer.

A lone Witcher labors, spade in hand, shirt damp with sweat, his boots scuffed and dusty.

Geralt pauses, hands loosening on the wooden handle of the spade. He feels something, an apprehension, a tingle at the nape of his neck, an uneasy buzzing in his teeth.

Magic; familiar and copper-tinged.

The crack of a portal opening splits the air and he whirls, watching as two figures stumble through, one with ashen hair, the other with the face of a lost lover. His shoulders loosen. Giving a grunt, he stabs the spade into the earth and approaches.

"Ciri." He says her name and his heart swells, his chest feels warm and full.

She turns at the sound of his voice, eyes bright in the sun. Geralt pauses, looking at the woman draped in her arms, taking in the red hair, the round, unfamiliar face lax in sleep. His fingers curl into his belt and he tilts his head, studying. 

He wants to laugh. Never can Ciri come home empty handed and care free. 

"I'm happy to see you," he says.

Her eyes dance. 

"We need Yen," Triss says, eyeing him, arms crossed.

He points with his chin. "At the house. Come with me."

They walk along the worn path to Corvo Bianco, Ciri close at Geralt's side, Triss looking everywhere but at him, feigning interest in the vineyard.

"Missed you," Geralt says.

"Missed you, too," Ciri says.

"It's been strange here, just Yen and I."

"Are you happy?"

"Bored."

She laughs, light, eyes on fire in the sunlight. "Do you still take jobs?"

"Nothing stimulating."

"And Yen?"

"The same." He hesitates. He wants to ask questions, to know where she had gone, why she left, why she stayed away - and yet he knows better than to ask, knowing that doing so would only have her startling away like shy bird, disappearing again into the void.

He settles on simple, ambiguous. "You?"

Her gaze touches his face, darts away. She knows what he doesn't say. "Perhaps after I've seen Yen, I might try your wine?"

"I warn you, it's no swill water. Only the best."

She dips her chin, smiling. "I look forward to it."

It is enough.

 

 

Yennefer's face is pale in the dim light of the library. Her hands hover over Aloy's chest, blue magic pulsing around her fingers. Her lips move, soundless. 

Her eyes open, sparking, dangerous. She looks at Ciri, her lips pursing. "Were the Aen Elle to wake her, they would dose her with a potion. We do not have the herbs in our world to make such a potion. Therefore, I must go into her consciousness. She will fight me. I may be able to speak with her, but if she will not listen to me, I will have to force her."

Stomach queasy, Ciri touches a knot in the table the Nora lays atop. She nods, wordless, helpless.

"What can I do?" Triss asks.

Movements deliberate, Yen draws off her jacket, drapes it over a chair. "Stay away," she replies. "You are not needed."

Geralt stirs from his spot against the wall, but says nothing.

Triss looks at the floor, jaw tight.

"Hold her down," Yen says to Ciri. "She may struggle." She pauses, considering the sleeping woman. "What is her name?"

"Aloy."

Yen hums. She smiles, tight and humorless, her eyes cool. "I will begin. Do not interfere."

Yennefer breathes, resting a hand on Aloy's forehead. She closes her eyes, gathering her magic and slipping into it, like an ocean around her, vast and roaring and cold. Dark the further you descend, turning inky and thick.

She extends her thoughts, glowing tendrils of energy. She probes, searching. She touches the other minds in the room, feels them stiffen as she brushes past, discards them until she finds the one she wants.

Aloy's mind glows golden, humming, a mass of steel and iron twisting, coiling together. It is warm to Yen's touch, unaware, unafraid. Sensing no resistance, Yen presses forward, submerging herself into the glow, excitement quickening her pulse.

A voice.

Yen senses the girl near, a vague shape. Aloy seems to notice her at the same time, the light in her mind seeming to darken, going still and cold.

'I want to help,' Yen tells her.

Aggression, red and tasting of blood, a fierce rush of emotion - the acid of fear.

Yen gasps, a pressure exerted on her own mind. She is shoved away, Aloy's mind stabbing forward, sharp like hot needles sinking into her eyes. Panicking, surprised, Yen throws her magic between herself and the other woman. She listens as something skulks on the perimeter of her guard, padding, panting, hungry.

'I'm here to help,' Yen tells her again. 

'Liar.' Distrust, the color of a twilight sky, burning at the edges. 

Yen bares her teeth. 'If that's how you want it.'

She thrusts her mind forward again, slamming into Aloy's consciousness with frightening force, shaking them both. She blankets her, smothering her, squeezing.

'Wake up,' she hisses. 'Wake up, you stupid girl.'

Images assail her. Faces. Blood. Eyes, blue and kind, full of sorrow. Creatures of metal and sparks, massive, screaming. Dust. Fire. Eyes again, a familiar green, a familiar smile. Words spoken somewhere else, in a different light, a different world. All of it alien, overwhelming.

'Out!' Aloy shouts, her rage hot and awful, ragged at the edges and sharp.

Yennefer gasps, magic spitting and burning in her veins. She grits her teeth, unwilling to back away, determined to succeed.

'Open your eyes.'

'I can't.'

Fear again, pungent, tight on her heart.

'Your sleep is over. Wake.'

Yennefer reaches out, her magic like fists.

 

 

Aloy wakes up screaming.

She struggles against the pressure of hands, her mind full of light and sound, her heart beating too hard. She bucks, desperate to flee, wanting to run, wanting to be anywhere but in her own skin. She is raw and trembling, her vision gray at the edges.

She looks up, sees only green eyes, worried, frantic. A sharp chin, generous lips, lips she thinks she wanted to kiss once.

'I know you,' she thinks. 'But who are you?'

Her name is spoken aloud, grounding her, reminding her.

Blinking, she looks into Ciri's face, her heart stuttering in recognition. She surges forward into her arms, desperate for touch, for reassurance. 

Ciri's neck is warm and salty against her lips. Aloy shudders.

After a time, heart calmed and steady, she draws back, looking up into Ciri's eyes.

"What the fuck was that?"


	7. Chapter 7

Triss taps a nail against the table. "So," she says, gaze pointed. 

Ciri sniffs at the mug of wine in her hand, nose wrinkling. She sips, smacking her lips with approval. 

"So," Triss says again, louder. 

Ciri looks at her from under an arched brow. She smiles. "So."

"For the love of the Gods," Yen hisses, impatient. "Who is the girl?"

Ciri's eyes flick to the door. 

She is fast. Well armed. She can time travel. They would couldn't catch her, could they? 

"Cirilla," Yen says, voice edged with threat.

Ciri sighs. "I was hiding," she says. "In another realm. She helped me. I couldn't resist lingering for a time. The Aen Elle found me, and when they took me, she passed through the portal."

"Brave," Triss says.

"Stupid," Yen contradicts.

"It was certainly foolish," Ciri agrees, taking a long draught of wine. 

"You will take her back now?" Triss asks.

"I cannot."

Confusion. "Why?"

"A man named Gaunter O'Dimm helped us escape. We owe him a debt."

Triss shakes her head. "It is not wise for her to stay. She doesn't belong here."

"O'Dimm," Yen says musingly. "The name is familiar."

"Aloy stays," Ciri says. "At least until we resolve this."

"And after?" Triss asks.

Dust motes float through the air, lit with light. Ciri watches them, counting. Her lips thin together.

"She means something to you," Triss says, eyes rueful. She gives a sharp shake of her head. "You musn't ."

"Musn't what?" Ciri snaps, eyes flaring. 

"I am of the opinion that you simply must," Yen says. "One cannot let opportunities pass them by. Especially matters of the heart."

"Yennefer," Triss says, reproachful.

Yen arches an eyebrow, her gaze challenging. "You know about opportunities, don't you? Old friend."

Ciri takes a deep swallow from her mug, hiding her wince. Triss flushes, eyes on the floor, her throat scarlet.

"It's elementary," Yen states. "She is not unattractive. Presumably receptive. Though we must dress her in something more tasteful."

Ciri smirks. "I bet you have the perfect black tunic."

"As a matter of fact..."

 

 

Outside, sweating and unblinking in the glare of the sun, Aloy and Geralt stare at each other.

Aloy finds the Witcher an interesting study, his face all scars and angles, his eyes strange and bright. He examines her in turn, his scrutiny sharp, noting every detail.

"Well," Aloy says. Her neck itches where a bead of sweat rolls down her skin. She swallows, willing herself not to blink. "This is awkward."

"Yup," Geralt says. He doesn't move.

"That's a nice scar on your face."

He grunts. 

"How did you get it?"

"Nosy redhead."

"Oh." Aloy nods wisely. "I get it. The one inside? I felt some tension."

Geralt blinks. His eyes narrow. "Must still be delirious. Take a blow to the head recently?"

Aloy scoffs. "Fine. I can take a hint."

He nods to the bow on her back. "Nice toy."

Aloy's lips curl. "You got something better?"

"I might."

"You want to bet?"

His eyes gleam. "Terms?"

"I'll bet my hair to your beard that I can hit any target you set more accurately than you can with...whatever you have."

Geralt touches his beard. Three months it took him to grow it. 

He sticks out his hand. "Deal."

 

 

Ciri starts as the door bangs open, bouncing off the wall. She watches with wide eyes as Geralt takes several purposeful strides to the mantle, retrieving his crossbow and a single bolt. 

Yennefer's brow raises.

"Geralt?" Triss says, voice uncertain.

He ignores her, spinning on his heel.

Ciri jumps to her feet, following, Yen and Triss close at her back.

They find Geralt and Aloy standing together, examining their weapons, dust swirling around their ankles.

"You see that knot in that post?" Geralt says, pointing with his chin.

Aloy nods.

Ciri squints. She can't see a ploughing thing.

"That's the target," Geralt says, loading a bolt.

Yennefer hides a smile. "What's all this?"

"Friendly wager," Geralt says. 

Aloy meets Ciri's questioning gaze. She gives a sheepish grin.

"Three crowns on the girl," Yen declares.

Geralt's brow furrows as he turns to look at her.

"What?" Yen says. She shrugs. "Anyone else?"

"Three crowns on Geralt," Triss says.

Yen smiles. "Naturally."

Ciri steps close to Aloy, murmuring low so only she can hear. "Your idea?"

"Maybe." Aloy tilts her head, eyes scanning the other woman's face. "No bet for you?"

"Geralt will win," Ciri states.

"But what if he doesn't?"

"Then I owe you a favor."

"And what do you want? If hell were to freeze over and I lost."

"A kiss." She delights in Aloy's stunned face. "I'll even let you pick where to kiss."

Aloy chokes.

"Do we have a deal?" Ciri asks, feigning innocence.

"Fine."

Ciri dips into a low curtsy. 

Naturally, it's a close call.

 

 

The night air is alive with shouts and laughter. Geralt rubs his freshly shaven chin, words slurring together. He hiccups, slamming his mug onto the table. He stares at it, bewildered, blinking.

"How do you make any profit when you drink all your wares?" Ciri teases, nudging his shoulder. 

"Profit, smofit," he replies.

"Never will you find a more eloquent man," Yen says.

Grinning, Ciri allows her attention to drift to Aloy, taking in her flushed face, her lop-sided grin. She admires the cut of her jaw, the curve of her lower lip. Her eyes, liquid in the candlelight, crinkling at the corners when she laughs. Her shy smile, the way she doesn't quite meet Ciri's gaze, instead watching her from the corner of her eye.

She folds her hands in her lap, clenching her knuckles, her skin tingling, her stomach light. Her chest feels tight and warm with something she can't name, some wanting, hungry thing that leaves her thirsty and dazed.

"I'm going to bed," Geralt declares, stumbling to his feet. He sways, pointing a finger at Aloy. "You. Sleep down here. Away from my daughter. No funny business."

Aloy raises a cup to her lips, hiding her face.

"And you." Geralt turns his bleary eyes on Ciri. He laughs, the sound bursting from him, rocking his shoulders. "Welcome home."

"Yes, yes," Yen says, taking his elbow. "This way, drink-sodden one."

"Yes, Majesty," he mumbles.

Triss rises to follow the retreating pair, her smile sly. "Sleep well."

Alone, Ciri lets out a breath. She smiles, hesitant. There are real problems, real talk to be had, and yet it seems the wrong time, the mood too light, the air thick with something careless and electric.

Flashing a crooked grin, Aloy tilts her mug in a salute. "This is really good."

"Not much of a drinker, are you?" 

"Are you kidding me? I drink at every meal."

"Water?"

"How did you know?" Aloy feigns surprise.

Snorting, Ciri stands. She holds out her hand. "Fancy a walk?"

Aloy's expression turns serious as she studies Ciri's hand. After a moment she places her own in it, allowing herself to be pulled and led, out into the night, into the air, into the vast openness of a sleeping world.

The air smells of recent rain and settled dust. Above them, the moon is a distant sliver of light, the sky bright with stars and planets. Aloy looks up, the vastness making her feel weightless, almost as if she is falling, floating.

A hand touches her arm and she turns. Ciri stands close to her, her heat like fire, distracting, heady, leaving her stomach knotted and nervous. 

Green eyes are intent on her face. "What are you thinking about?"

Her tongue sticks to the roof of her mouth. She gives a dry, forced swallow, unsure of what to do with her hands; in her pockets? At her side? They feel so awkward there, dangling limp from her wrists.

"I can't think," she replies.

Ciri's head tilts, curious, searching. "Why?"

She wants to laugh, to tell her that no one could think with someone like her standing so near.

"I don't know," she says instead, grimacing at her inexperience, her awkwardness. She looks Ciri over, gauging her, studying her body language.

She takes a breath.

Gathering her courage and squeezing her eyes shut, she steps forward, catching Ciri's lips with a feather brush of her own. Instantly, she panics, going rigid, pulling away. A hand settles on her cheek, catching her before she can run, pulling her close to kiss her again, leaving her lips wet and buzzing.

Melting, intoxicated, Aloy leans forward, deepening the kiss, Ciri's lips parting at the brush of her tongue. She moans at the taste of her mouth, the softness of her lips, the way her cheek smells against her nose. She feels it all too much, overwhelmed, but somehow not enough. Frightened, but elated, her heart like fresh glazed glass, glowing, pulsing.

Were she to choose a moment to live in, this would be it. Here, with arms around her, the taste of another clinging to her mouth, softness on her lips, moving, shaping. 

She wonders if this is what it is like to fall in love.


	8. Chapter 8

Her dreams are full of shadows. In the dark distance, fires glow, brilliant and flickering against the stars. Below her, the ground is made of stone, carved with intricate writings, faces of a long dead civilization. There are voices, low and hissing, the brush of dry skin against her neck. 

“A good eve to the lady,” comes a voice.

Aloy whirls, hands readying for a fight.

Gaunter O’Dimm steps from the shadows and smiles, an almost grimace of disdain. He bows, cloak fluttering. “A pleasure, dear child.”

She takes a step back, ever apprehensive. “You.”

“Yes, tis I, your savior, your humble servant.” 

She waves a hand, indicating the inked world around them. “This, this is your doing?”

“Quite. I find the company you keep to be….troublesome. And so, we shall meet here, in a realm of my choosing.”

“What do you want?”

He chuckles. “Crass, but to the point. I do favor those of single-minded intent. But first, don’t you have something to say to me? Here, I’ll give you a hint. It it something that one that is full of feelings of gratitude and well being might say.”

Aloy frowns. “Thank you.”

O’Dimm brushes off his shoulder, feigning embarrassment. “Oh, do stop. Your praise is too much, really. I did what anyone would have were they wearing my fashionable yet functional clogs.”

Aloy blinks down at his feet. “They are very nice.”

“Thank you. A trader in Novigrad. I practically stole them.” He smiles, a hint of threat there, of something unsavory. “But, I’ve come to remind you, dear child, that you owe me a debt.”

“I remember.” 

He clicks his tongue, circling her, examining her with a critical eye. His steps echo in the darkness. “There are no ghosts in your world, no supernatural beings. No demons. Your monsters wear the flesh of Humans. Your beasts are wrought from science and evolution. I find it plain and displeasing.”

“Sorry?”

“Have you heard the tale of Faust, dear heart?”

“No.”

O’Dimm smiles. He snaps his fingers and two chairs appear. He gestures, waiting until Aloy moves to sit before he lowers himself into his own. From his cloak his draws a pipe and a pouch of pungent smelling tobacco. He packs the pipe with a look of concentration. A flame appears at the tip of his index finger and he lights the stack, blowing smoke to extinguish the flame. He crosses an ankle over his knee.

“Faust,” O’Dimm says, “is long dead in your world. But here, he is a budding egomaniac. He is vastly intelligent, but he lacks humility, and thinks a bit too highly of himself, were you to want my opinion. In time, he will come to a plateau of his talents. He will feel debased, looked down upon, unappreciated. A man that feels as though he has been cast in the gutter is a bitter creature, one full of resentment and malice. One capable of atrocities. But our Faust is but a silly Necromancer, a wizard who has carnal lusts of knowledge and power over men. He desires Godhood, but knows not how to wield it. And so he will turn from God. And turn to me.” 

He leans forward, his eyes black and shining in the haze of smoke. “What has this to do with you, you wonder. Well, sweet child. It is a word of caution, or perhaps encouragement. I have the power to grant any wish you desire, be it love, wealth, knowledge, or strength. It is within my grasp. But, have you the strength of character?”

“I want nothing from you,” Aloy says, jaw tightening. “I owe you a debt, as you say. Beyond that, our relationship ends.”

O’Dimm hums. “A wise choice. But, until you fulfill your debt, you are mine to wield as I see fit. And perhaps I might change your mind in the interim.”

“Then what is it? What do you want from me?”

“In time, dear heart. You will know when I call for you as the rune on your arm burns. But, might I suggest you make your way to Tesham Mutna? I think you will find the beginning of your quest there, under the bones of the dead.”

With that, he is gone, leaving only the cold of the dark air, the fires in the distance, and the foreboding of an unspoken threat. Aloy sits alone, looking up at the sky and the fires that burn there.


	9. Chapter 9

“Steady,” Geralt says, touching a knuckle to Aloy’s elbow. 

“I know,” Aloy says out of the side of her mouth, her gaze focused on a doe grazing a few feet away. “I have hunted before.”

“Couldn’t tell from the way you stomped through the trees.”

“I didn’t stomp.”

“Right. Blundered. Sorry.”

Aloy slowly pulls back against the bowstring until the back of her thumb touches her cheek. “It must be your hearing growing poor in your old age. Or your mind becoming soft.”

Geralt grunts, amused. “Careful. Don’t mess up now.”

With an exhale, she loosens the arrow and it flies, landing with an audible thunk in the doe’s heart. The creature gives a cry of bewilderment and collapses, eyes wide and panicked, rolling back in their sockets. Stowing the bow on her shoulder, Aloy moves forward, dropping into a kneel next to the felled animal. She draws a knife from her belt. 

“Thank you,” she whispers. She draws the blade across the doe’s throat, moving back as it gives a final kick and stills. Blood and soil mingle.

Geralt tilts his head. “Not terrible.”

Aloy makes a noise of disapproval, frowning.

“I understand,” Geralt says with a shrug. “Not everyone was taking down trolls with their bare hands at the age of 12.”

“Not that your bragging.”

“Right.”

Rolling her eyes, Aloy snaps the arrow protruding from the deer. “I killed, you carry. Shouldn’t be any effort for your troll murdering hands.”

“Ever seen a troll?” Geralt asks, stooping to get a grip on the deer’s legs, hefting it over his shoulders. 

“Nope.” 

“Experience speaks volumes.” He pauses. “Ciri has killed a troll. More than one. It takes a lot to impress her at this point.”

“I’m not trying to impress her,” Aloy says between gritted teeth, moving away, starting back along the path whence they came.

“Good,” Geralt says. “I’d say it isn’t working.” 

Aloy says nothing.

“It’s not easy sometimes,” Geralt says, relenting. “Most of the time. With Yen. I have to try. All the time. And I helped save the world. More than once.”

“Maybe it’s the way you smell.”

“What?” Geralt frowns, turning his head to sniff an armpit. “I bathe.”

“Once a month?”

“Yearly.”

Aloy glances over her shoulder, the hint of a smile tugging at her lips. “Must be your natural charm, then.”

“Obviously.” He pauses, allowing the sounds of crickets and birds to build around them. He prefers it like this, silent, not assuming, allowing things to flow. But something niggles at him. “You’ve seemed distracted”

“Probably the interdimensional travel thing.”

He stops. “Hey.”

She stops, slowly turns to look at him.

“What is it?”

She worries her lip, uncertain. Coming to a decision, she steps closer, pulling up her sleeve to bare her arm. There, red and irritated is a rune that sends Geralt’s stomach dropping. 

He raises his eyes to Aloy’s face, his expression grim. “What has he asked for?”

“I don’t know,” she sighs. “He isn’t clear. He comes to me in dreams, never speaking plainly. He told me to travel to Tesham Mutna. But nothing beyond that.”

“And Ciri?”

“Haven’t had time to compare notes.”

“Blast,” Geralt says, eyes blazing. “You’re caught now.”

“I know.”

“I’ve encountered him before. You made a deal?”

“Yes. To escape.”

“And?”

“I promised to owe him a favor.”

Geralt exhales through his nose. “We can fix this.”

“You meant to say, I can fix this. Because it’s my problem.”

“I said what I meant. We. Together.”

Looking away, Aloy clears her throat. An unknown emotion wells in her chest, perhaps gratitude, perhaps relief, something warm and painful all at once. 

“Right now, we get this back to Corvo Bianco. We’ll make plans later. After you talk to Ciri.”

Sighing, Aloy nods. “Okay.”

“And I’ll take my yearly bath.”

Laughing, they start back along the trail. 

 

Ciri notes the way Aloy keeps her distance, flickering in and out like a startled animal. She crosses her arms, leaning against a post and turning her attention to the fields of grass, glowing purple in the sunset. 

“We haven’t had time to talk,” Aloy says, worrying at a bit of loose steel on her left vambrace. “About the obvious.”

“O’Dimm,” Ciri supplies.

Aloy nods. “I’ve seen him. In my dreams.”

“That’s unsettling.”

“Very,” Aloy agrees, chuckling. “I spoke to Geralt. Showed him the mark on my arm. He seemed...worried.”

“Lovely.”

“We’re supposed to travel to Tesham Mutna.” Aloys eyes flicker away, traveling along the horizon. “There’s something there for us to find.”

Reaching out, Ciri briefly touches the backs of her fingers to Aloy’s arm. “You’re thinking loudly,” she says.

“I’m...bothered,” Aloy admits. “I’m out of my depth. I don’t know this place. This world. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”

Stepping closer, Ciri wraps an arm around Aloy’s waist, laying her head against her shoulder. “Personally, I’ve learned it’s all beyond my control. Destiny, fate, comedy, whatever it is.” Aloy turns to look at her and she straightens, looking into her eyes. “I’m terrible at this. What I am saying is, we will never be here again. In this moment. Or the moments to come. Life is what we make of it, and I intend to make the best of it. Wherever it may lead.” 

Smirking, Aloy laces her fingers with Ciri’s, tilting her head to look at the sky. “I get it. I think.”

“Good.” Ciri presses a kiss to Aloy’s cheek, and together they watch the sun disappear against the line of the horizon.


	10. Chapter 10

They make an odd trio, two witchers and a machine slayer.

Aloy sits silent atop the horse provided from the Corvo Bianco stable master. She holds the reins loosely as taught, her back straight, shoulders up. It’s not so different from riding a Strider. The same fluid, easy movements, rolling into each step, signaling with her thighs and heels. Only the smell differs; not the oil and heated steel of a machine, but distinctly organic, sweat turning dust damp.

The sun burns above them in a cloudless sky. A bead of sweat gathers at Aloy’s temple. She ignores it, staring over Geralt’s shoulder at the road ahead, seemingly never ending, stretching forever into the distance. She glances at Ciri. The Witcheress shoots her a cocky grin, eyebrows raised. She winks. Aloy looks away. Noting the red tinge to the Nora’s cheeks, Ciri chuckles, pleased with herself. 

Aloy resists the urge to duck her head, staring fixedly ahead instead, forcing her shoulders rigid, thrusting out chin with feigned confidence. In the privacy of her mind, she rolls her eyes at her obvious lack of elegance. It leaves her with an almost physical pain, her stomach tight and knotted, her lungs tight. She wishes...she wishes she were something more. Someone more knowledgeable. Someone sure of themselves. Someone who doesn’t fumble and trip over their own tied tongue. Someone worthy. 

“Riders,” Geralt says in a low voice.

Coming back into her physical body, Aloy looks ahead and sees the distant figures. She counts six. They are too far to make out fine details, but she can see the glint of bare blades, the shine of armor.

“Blast,” Ciri says. “They’ve seen us by now. Too late to detour.”

Geralt grunts. “Aye. We’ll meet them head on. Hope their purses are full and their spirits are light.”

“Doubt it,” Ciri mumbles.

“Be ready,” Geralt says. He glances at Aloy. “Bandits are common on this area. Nothing we can’t handle.”

She says nothing in return. She moves the lance from her shoulder and rests it across her thighs. She hears the rasp of a dragger being drown.

As they draw closer, the tension tightens. The riders see them and their voices raise, become loud and abrasive. The smell of dust and burning sunlight becomes overwhelming, the air suddenly tight with the threat of violence.

“Oi there!” Shouts the rider in front. He is small and thin, his beard patchy, his lips cracked with blisters. He raises a hand and the others heel behind him, pulling up with a clash of hooves and creaking leather. He focuses his gaze on Geralt, grinning to show a mouthful of crumbling teeth. “Hail, travelers.”

Geralt dips his chin. “Hail.”

The man glances at Ciri and Aloy, his pink little tongue darting out to wet his lips. “Far from home, are ye?”

Geralt says nothing.

The man’s gaze snaps back to the Witcher, focusing with a narrow of lids. “Where are ye headed?”

“Somewhere with a view,” Geralt says.

The man throws his head back and laughs. He spreads his arms, palms up. “This is God’s land, freak. There is nothing more beautiful than these lands.” He glances at Ciri and licks his lips again, his reptile gaze shrewd. “Except an exceptional lass, mayhaps.” Behind his back, his men hoot in agreement, dust billowing from beneath their mount’s hooves.

Shifting, Geralt rests and open hand on his thigh, holding the reins loose in one hand. “We’ll be on our way.”

“Nay,” says the small leader. He swings down from his horse, padding forward with light steps. He tilts his head to look up at Geralt. “Stay, won’t ye? Make glad with us. We have wine and bread. What have ye, traveler? Have ye heart?”

Suddenly, the air is still. The sounds of the world cease. There is only the sun and the smell of dried blood. 

Geralt stares down at the bandit leader, his golden eyes cold. “You know what I am. Don’t be a fool.”

“I have no fear,” the little man sneers. “Not of men or beasts or abominations.” He draws a short sword from the sheathe at his waist, tilting it to catch the light. “I’ll gut you and plow your wenches bloody, freak.”

There is a clatter of swords and armor as the bandits dismount, spreading out in a half circle to surround. 

Eyes flashing, Ciri glances at Aloy, her gaze fierce, full of anger. Aloy gives her brisk nod in return.

Geralt sighs. He shifts and swings his leg up and dismounts. He walks towards the bandit leader, his movements lithe, his lips set into a thin line. He pauses a step away, hands open and dangling. “Last chance,” he says.

“Fuck ye,” the little man snarls, eyes blazing with wrath. 

Geralt beheads him with one fluid movement, the crimson blood arcing and glittering in the summer sun. It hits the soil with the sound of rain. There is a pause, a moment of frozen shock. The bandits stare slack jawed and incredulous.

“Plowing bastard,” one says, raising his head to glare at Geralt. He points. “Get the freak,” he shouts. 

With a cry, Aloy leaps from her horse, hitting the ground with both feet and running into the fray of swinging blades, bringing her lance around in a crackling arc. She grunts as she makes contact, feeling the halt of bone and flesh. She hears a cry and pivots, thrusting forward to catch an oncoming foe in the gut, the blade sparking and sinking into his innards, slicing through the vital bits and punching through his back. The man stares at her, mouth open, eyes startlingly blue. He gasps and she withdraws, shoving him to the ground with a kick of her boot.

A flash of green and she sees Ciri at her side, sword flashing up to catch a descending blackjack. The ashen-haired woman presses forward and throws a fist, catching the bandit in the jaw. He staggers and she darts forward, catching his throat with the dagger in her left hand. More blood, the smell coppery, and he falls to his knees, the whites of his eyes showing in panic. 

Ciri darts away in a trail of green light, flashing and reappearing to catch her blade in the flesh of a stunned bandit.

Whirling, Aloy presses her back to Geralt’s. He acknowledges her with a nod. She grips her lance with both hands, knuckles white as she watches the remaining bandits close in. The tension gathered in her stomach uncoils and she springs forward, the butt of her lance catching a bandit in the temple as she twists. She feels something at her back and spins, too late, a cry loosing from her throat as a blade catches her stomach, slipping into a vulnerable space of her armor, tearing cloth and separating skin. She staggers. The bandit grunts, his helm shielding his eyes. He jabs his sword, uncoordinated, treating is more like a shovel than a weapon of death and ruin. Aloy dodges easily, ignoring the sharp pain across her abdomen. 

“Fucking cunt,” the bandit snarls, stumbling as he swings his sword up, losing his footing. Taking advantage of his over-calculation, Aloy brings her lance down on his helm, denting the metal, cleaving it, a sudden splash of red, the white of the man’s skull, the grey of his brain. He falls heavily, lays still. 

She looks up, watches as Ciri dispatches the final bandit with a series of blows, taking off a arm, pivoting with a thrust of her sword. She buries it to the hilt in the man’s chest. 

As he falls, Ciri turns, catching Aloy’s gaze. She glances down at the blood on Aloy’s midsection and lowers her sword, her strides quick as she closes the distance between them. She reaches out, but does not touch her.

“Are you okay?”

Aloy nods. “Fine.”

Lips quirking, Ciri steps closer, leaning down to exam the wound. “You’ll need stitches.”

“Later,” Aoy says. 

Sighing, Ciri straightens. “Put pressure on it, at least. Can’t have you bleeding out on the side of the road.”

“Looks like a scratch,” Geralt’s comments. He wipes his blade on a torn bit of cloth as he approaches. His eyes light with humor as he glances at Aloy’s wound. “It’ll leave a pitiful scar.”

Grimacing, Aloy manages a smile. “Like the one on your face.”

Geralt scoffs. 

“Alright,” Ciri says, resting a hand on Aloy’s elbow. “Back on the path.” 

Geralt tilts his head towards the horses. “Invalids first.”

Pressing a hand to her stomach, Aloy strides past him, holding herself with as much dignity as she can muster. She ignores Geralt’s snicker.

 

“It’s not bad,” Ciri comments, dabbing blood away from the wound.

Head resting on her arm, Aloy gazes up at the stars, carefully ignoring the tug of the cloth at the edges of her cut flesh. She bites her lip. “Mmhm.”

Ciri glances up at her face. “Still needs stitches.”

“Mmhm,” Aloy says again. 

“Don’t disappear,” Ciri says, moving to the saddle bags to search out twine and needle.

Aloy lets out a breath, taking in the smell of the woods; moss and wood and rocks. The smell of smoke from the campfire, charred wood. 

It is only she and Ciri, Geralt having made himself scarce early in the night, muttering something about meditation. 

Ciri returns, kneeling at her side. She threads the needle with one practiced movement, pausing to look at Aloy with a questioning look. Aloy nods with a grimace, turning her gaze once again to the stars. 

The thought is worse than the pain. Ciri’s hands are sure and quick, lingering not. Once done, Ciri pauses, running light fingers over undamaged skin close to the wound, tracing muscles under the skin. 

“Done,” Ciri says.

“Thank you,” Aloy says, raising her head to look at her.

Ciri shrugs a shoulder, her expression uncharacteristically bashful. 

Aloy gives a shiver, the feel of Ciri’s fingers lingering on her skin leaving her oddly hot and nervous. She looks at her and her eyes are too bright, too green, too knowing. She feels bare, as if every thought is obvious, her wants plain. 

Sensing her discomfort, Ciri withdraws her hand and moves to sit next to her, drawing her knees up and resting her chin on them. Tentative, Aloy reaches for her, wrapping her hand around her ankle. Ciri smiles at her, head tilted. 

“Do you miss it? Your home?”

“No,” Aloy replies. She hesitates. “I’ve never considered it a home. At first it was a trial, a test of strength. And then it became a responsibility. But it was never a home. I never...felt like this. I... I almost feel as if home is not a place, but a person. Someone who makes you feel safe and whole and real.” 

Ciri chews her lip. “And after? All of this. Will you go back?”

Aloy looks at her, her eyes liquid and full of some unspoken emotion. “Will you make me?”

Ciri shake her head. “I could never.”

“You’ve been here before,” Aloy says. “Feeling this. What I feel.” 

Ciri nods.

“I’ve not,” Aloy says, her eyes speaking her fear, her depth. 

Ciri reaches for her, trailing her fingers along Aloy’s jaw. “There’s nothing like it. Being in love. It’s heady and terrifying and all you need in the moment. Are you scared?”

Aloy nods.

Ciri smiles, tender. She touches Aloy’s chin, bringing her lips close to her own. “It’s easy. If you let me. If you forget about everything. Forget your expectations. Stop thinking. Just feel.” 

Aloy sighs. It’s intoxicating, being so close to Ciri, feeling the warmth of her skin, her breath on her face. She imagines her taste, the way she feels. Her stomach knots, and her breath hitches. She wets her lips and Ciri watches, her eyes hooded. Slowly, mesmerizing, Ciri closes the space between their lips, presses their mouths together, her tongue slipping between Aloy’s lips to meet her with a moan, almost desperate in her movements. She raises herself up and moves to rest between Aloy’s legs, sliding her palms along her thighs, pulling her close, wrapping Aloy’s legs around her hips. Aloy gasps into her mouth, surprised, her hips canting up at the close contact. Ciri groans, her fingers dipping into Aloy’s hair, tangling in it.

A throat clears.

Bleary and dazed, they pull away. Geralt stands at the edge of the campfire. He raises a fist, displaying two dangling rabbits.

“Dinner,” he says.

Aloy and Ciri cough, separating. 

“Lovely,” Ciri says, her expression, dark.

Geralt grins.


	11. Chapter 11

The stone of the place is black and worn. 

A shiver runs down Aloy’s spine as she pivots to examine the ruins. The moon is high in the sky, full and ominous, shedding a cold light. Next to her, Ciri frowns, gazing at Geralt with a look somewhere between apprehension and bewilderment. 

“I don’t suppose you know what comes next,” Geralt says to Aloy.

She shrugs. 

He sighs. “I’m getting too old for this.” He dips a hand into the pouch at his hip, removes a vial. He holds it up to the moonlight.The liquid inside is black. He gestures with his head and Ciri and Aloy follow as he climbs over a low crumbling wall, leads them to an unremarkable stone wall.

“I’ve been here before,” he says, unstopping the vial. “When I was hunting the Beast of Beauclair. Regis brewed a concoction that allowed me to connect with the Beast, but it required the blood of a vampire caught in the throes of blood lust. We went down to the very bottom of this place, I caged him, dropped bait to draw in Scurvers and slaughtered them until he was at full frenzy.” He shakes his head. “Gotta have the blood of a Higher Vampire to get in. Just so happens I have some here.” 

He smears the black blood over the wall and the stone absorbs it, drinks it, a single circular rune flaring red. Rock grinds and with a exhale of dust, the wall slides down, revealing steps leading down.

Geralt gives a hum of approval and steps to the side. “Mighty warriors first.”

Aloy stares into the darkness, brows raised. “What are Scurvers?”

“Flesh eaters,” Geralt says. He twists his fingers into a complicated sign and the torch he holds lights with a puff of fire. “Spiny, ugly flesh eaters.”

Ciri steps forward, placing a hand on Aloy’s shoulder as she shoots a dirty look in Geralt’s direction. “Nothing a blade can’t vanquish,” she says.

Aloy swallows, taking the torch Geralt presses into her hand. “Uhm.” She takes a step into the mouth of the entrance, steeling herself, her jaw clenched, hand ready to make a grab for the spear across her back. 

“Arsehole,” she hears Ciri hiss.

“What?” Geralt says.

Aloy steps carefully, arm outstretched to cast the torch’s glow as far as possible. 

The air smelling of old blood and the must and dankness of ancient moss, they make their way down the long stairway, past empty cells, down more steps, a thousand it seems, until they at last reach the bottom. It is an open expanse, cages dangling in the air, old crates scattered here and there. A flash of something pale catches Aloy’s eye and she leans down to look closer, bringing the torch close. The light reveals a lower jaw, clearly human. She looks about with a fresh gaze and sees the floor is littered with bones, pale and yellowed with age. Skulls and femurs and teeth and broken hands. It reminds her of the ruins of the Old Ones, the forgotten bones of a gone civilization. The dead left behind, their stories ended, forgotten.

Mouth tasting bitter, she rises, moving to stand at Ciri’s side. 

“I don’t know what we’re looking for,” she says, frowning. 

“You’ll know it when you see it,” Geralt says, extending an arm to shed torchlight across the chamber. 

His words are still echoing when she feels the air change, become still and close. She opens her mouth to speak, but pauses, noting the unnatural stillness with which Geralt and Ciri stand. Frowning, she waves a hand in front of Geralt’s face. He doesn’t blink, eyes dull and shiny in the light of the torch.

“Not to worry,” says a voice. With a swirl of sparks and darkness, Gaunter O’Dimm appears, his eyes the color of coals. He pauses before Geralt, tilting his head to the side with an air of amusement, analyzing. “I’ll let them go as soon as we finish our little chat.” 

Aloy steps forward, her hand fisting at her side. “Why here?”

O’Dimm looks at her, smirking. “There is power in blood. Knowledge in pain. The echoes here are ancient. The souls plentiful. I can feel them, the very air humming with their energy. I need only a vessel.”

A sudden horror blossoming in her chest, Aloy takes a step back, hand straying to the knife at her side. 

O’Dimm cackles, head thrown back, teeth flashing. “Oh, dear girl. Not to worry. I have no intent to harm you. Rather, I give you knowledge.” 

He points. She looks, stepping forward, canting the torch to see better. A book lays amid the bones, bound in black, scarred leather, its face blank, wordless.

“Pick it up,” O’Dimm says.

She does, a line creased between her eyes, her fingers trembling as she touches the book. She gasps, feeling a vibration, an unsteady power, something dark and corrupt, twisting within the pages that bind it. 

O’Dimm draws a harsh breath between his teeth, eyes flaming in the near dark. “Excellent.”

She cracks the spine, her nose full of the pungent odor of ancient dust. She peers at the yellow pages, full of an unfamiliar language drawn in tight, small symbols. There are illustrations, faded but legible; otherworldly entities, faces twisted and howling, scaled and coiled, skulls littered at their feet, bodies of men gripped in their hands, their mouths gored. 

“What is this?” she asks, bewildered. 

“Knowledge older than this world and your own combined,” O’Dimm breathes, leaning close to study the pages. He beams, claps a hand on Aloy’s shoulder. “Wonderful. I couldn’t be happier.” 

“I don’t understand,” Aloy says, drawing away. She closes the book with a snap, casting it a last distasteful glance before she holds it out, offering it. 

“Oh, no,” O’Dimm says. “Not for me. For another. I would like you to take it to him.”

“I’m not a delivery service.”

“Quite. But that book has, shall we say, a reputation. Once it is out of this tomb, it will quicken, and misfortune is bound to happen. I myself am simply not equipped to handle such a thing.”

“Bullshit.”

O’Dimm quirks an eyebrow. “Your new friends will be quite useful on the journey. To Novigrad. Take it to the bookseller Marcus Thaddeus Knut Hodgson. 

Aloy blinks. “No way will I forget that name.” 

“And then, dear girl, our business will be at a close.”

“That’s it? Deliver a book and we’re quits? No more dream stalking or cryptic conversations in dungeons? Debt paid?”

“Yes. Although, I could always find other outlets for your services.”

“I’ll pass.” 

He sighs. “Very well. If you change your mind, I’m always a whisper away.” 

And with that he is gone. The air returns, a rush of it as time resumes. Geralt and Ciri stumble on their feet, caught unaware. 

“What the devil was that?” Ciri says, looking around with alarm. 

“O’Dimm,” Geralt says with certainty, his eyes falling on the book in Aloys hand. “What is that?”

“He wants it delivered. To a man in Novigrad.”

“Damn,” Geralt says, shaking his head. He peers at the book, but doesn’t move to touch it. “Sure to be trouble.” 

“No trouble at all,” Ciri says. “I am the Lady of Space and Time after all. I can travel there and be back before super.” 

She grins, sure of herself, but Geralt shakes his head. “No. Won’t let you on your own with that thing. I’ve dealt with O’Dimm before. There’s nothing simple here.” 

Her eyebrows raise. “That’s a ten day ride.” 

“Uh-huh.”

She shrugs. “Fine. I suppose I’ll just enjoy the scenery.” She looks pointedly at Aloy.

Aloy flips her off.


End file.
